Tag: creative

Here we go…the guilt the remorse. Fuck…I shouldn’t have done that last night…Seems like after every time we fuck, things get more difficult between us. I smack my forehead as I sit up in my bed. The storyline in my brain overflows with why’s and curse words. It makes me feel like an asshole; my eyes begin to swell up in tears. No! No crying…fuck why do I want to cry?! What do I have to be upset about it takes two right? Right so calm the fuck down. I know why I want to cry. Because I want him so bad…I want to be with him so bad and he’s not mine to have. Nope no he’s not but I start to think how it would be but that’s pointless we’ve been down that road too many times. I pick up my phone to check the time. Fuck I gotta get up and move I have shit to do today. I throw the covers off of me, revealing I’m covered by only panties. The light pounding in my head says to me I need to drink some tea and eat. Ugh fuck me…I don’t feel like doing shit. Bathroom first. Go get a good look at myself but I can’t even make eye contact with my own reflection long enough. I keep remembering the night before. I shake my head realizing it’s mostly me that initiates crossing the line.

I gaze upon him too long, admire his face, adore his reactions that I fall into a hole that can be hard to get out of. The cold seat on my ass snaps me out of my trance. My skin crawls and shudders as I recollect climbing on top of him, topless, not in disgust but mostly in shame. It always starts off so innocently. He went to talk to his mom while I put on a new Netflix show. In efforts of to keep the night so simple, I stayed in his desk chair even thought I wanted to lie down. I was tired while Jack Daniels danced through my veins. About 10 minutes later, he reappears, showing me he bought a ticket for an event. He lays on the bed but I stay seated, trying to fight the urge to slither across the room. The fight is lost within a movement. I cuddle up into his warmth, rest my nose up against his neck. His fragrance is one of my favorite things about him as I groan inwardly. He pulls me in closer, rubbing my arm. My loneliness gives a quick sigh of relief, missing the feeling of being held. I can’t remember what the conversation even was about. His voice was fading as I gawked at his lips move and smirk. That fucking mouth. And the way he looked upon me…like he was telling me to go for it. Do it, I’m begging you. Our breath inches apart, my body was heavy with lust and anticipation. I kept up the act, laughing and conversing, while my pussy quivered. Quit looking at his mouth. But also don’t look into his eyes. Where the hell else can I look?! Blue walls, ikea headboard, his cat sniffing at our beer bottles with curiousity. Back at his lips. I’m so fucked.

Somehow the conversation has died in laughter. The air is still as we twitch, hesitant to make the first move. I feel as if I’m sinking into the bed, the weight of yearning crushing my lungs and soon, I’m done. I have to…the microwave beeps, alerting that my tea is ready to be made. My thumb runs along my bottom lip. We’re so fucked. When I got home, I apologized for advancing. He said not to worry about it. I cherish the state of our friendship more than the sex, the lust I have for pleasing him. But the more we fall into this temptation, the more it hinders and breaks the foundation. Pain shoots through my chest. Without our knowing, we became emotionally attached, love that had friendly intention escalated quickly. The mug burns my hands. I deserve it.

He says I’m trying to be good for the thousandth time in our life span of fucking around. Be good then, I retort, knowing that “being good” is so far gone. How many times have I heard, “behave,” or “you’re so bad for me,” with him still continuing after. If you don’t want to kiss me, stop. If you don’t want to go down on me, stop. If you don’t want my lips around the base of your dick…our lips lock, tongues taste and teeth bite down on upper and bottom lips. Our kissing is my most favorite thing, second is the way he eats me. I hope he licks my hole with eagerness. Kisses my lips tenderly but fucks me hard like he’s been missing this pussy. Ugh no, no! I need to stop thinking like this! The pinch of my left nipple makes me cry out and the guilt vanishes for good. My drunken haze makes the sex seem lazy, lackluster as I recall him grabbing me by the waist, jerking me closer to slide further into me. His taste lingers in the back of my throat. I call out with each thrust.

My walls still feel him inside of me as I slide my jeans up on my hips and I fight to touch myself. Something about the ghost of a good fuck makes me want to slide my fingers in and out of me but knowing I won’t have the same orgasm stops me. Besides I have somewhere to be in…fuck like now. Abruptly, I stick my barefeet in the first pair of shoes I see, glance myself over and run out the door. I don’t give a shit of my appearance.

Legs in the air, he licks and tastes me as if I’m the greatest he’s ever swallowed. Earnest and eager but with the most satisfaction. I watch him like a prime time tv show, well scripted and produced. I lightly push his head away, signal for him to resume pounding me. He concludes with one long cleansing lick… I wish I could go back to feeling no remorse. Those times were long gone after the 5th or 10th time we collapsed into one another. We just got frustrated and angry about what we were putting ourselves through. Grown ass people and we knew we needed to stop after the very first time. I felt at one moment we were going to stop being friends…it could still happen. I park in front of the building. I coax myself into forgetting, burying the night before, the pain all into depths of me.

The scooch and screech of chairs against the scuffed, aging hardwood floors echo throughout the shelves. Students coming and going, reading spines and flipping through pages, the library is lively this Saturday morning. Much to my surprise, I find my stand alone desk isn’t occupied in the Stacks and I’m truly honored. My private island. All alone, it faces a bare brick wall where I’ve etched his name over time with a safety pin from my jacket. I find myself spending more time staring at the brick than any words on a page. Study literature? How when he’s every line of a poem I need? How when he’s a better read than any book I own? I observe, analyze, every freckle, fold, flaw on my demigod. The way the lines crease around his eyes when he laughs, how he uses his whole body as he roars. The way the muscles and veins flex and protrude when he’s building or sculpting, grabbing a hold of me. How smooth his peanut butter skin, the small contrast against mine as we lay side by side. The sounds he makes in his sleep, the way his chest rises and falls as he cuddles up against me while I read. Not any chemistry or philosophy book holds my attention. I hear the campus clock bellow a new hour, jerking me away from my trance. I relax in the stiff seat and open to page 59 in my lit book and try to study authors of the 1940’s. I can study him later.

And if I could have it any other way, I’d have him in my bed. But this world isn’t perfect; it’s grimey and crooked and confusing. He sits in a chair in the corner of the hotel room, watching me undress as Interpol plays in the background. I like the way his gaze feels on my shoulder blades as I slip my bra straps down my arms. I can feel his urge to eat me up. The danger of being desired is becoming addicted to the game. My husband has never desired me like my men do. He has never taken me, pushed me up against the wall, torn a skirt off of me. But these men, my men, feed me sexually. Once my bra hits the ground, he charges at me, the chair his the wall with a loud thud from the momentum. He tackles me onto the bed, biting and kissing at my neck and collarbone. No my husband could never want me this much for he lacks passion. And without his passion, I remain unfaithful.